Unread Letters
by PrincessOfDrama33
Summary: Renesmee has never known her mother, Bella. After growing up with a devastated father, she sets out to find out who her mother is...until evidence begins to arrise that Bella may not be dead after all. Set in the 1900s.
1. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

I recognized those brown eyes even in the darkness of the night. Her lashes were thick and dark, framing the face that seemed even more beautiful every time I dreamt of her. She smiled at me, her eyes glowing with affection as she spotted me looking in shyly. In these dreams, she was always somewhere different, but now in the summer house, she happened to be here, in the millpond. The croaking frogs of summer around her as her bare feet brushed the cool water, creating tinkling noises. She seemed to be expecting me as she held her hand open and let my fingers brush hers, locking them into mine. She patted the spot next to her with her other hand and let me sit down on the grass, sliding through my fingers.

"Hello, sweetheart," she said, smiling kindly as she locked her fingers through mine and looked at me, eyes filled with adoration.

"Hello, Momma," I whispered back, letting my head fall on her shoulder and savoring the warmth of her fingers sliding across my hair, even if it wasn't nearly as pretty as her thick mahogany locks which were filled with daffodils that bloomed along the millpond.

I let my head rest there, savoring the sheer warmth of her and the noises around us. Mostly just hearing her breathe next to me was calming, which was exactly what I needed at the moment.

"I don't like Tanya," I stated petulantly after a second.

"Of course you don't, darling," she smiled knowingly.

The wonderful thing about my mother was how easily things flowed around her, particularly when I knew it was a dream, and I could tell her anything in them.

"She's going to replace me," I pouted, irked by her easygoing, joyful mood.

"Of course she's not going to replace you, love," she disagreed, smiling at me as she kissed the crown of my head. "Daddy loves you more than anything else. You know that."

"I do," I elaborated. "It's just, she really, really doesn't love him. It's like that woman he was engaged to when I was smaller, the nasty, piggy-looking one Aunt Alice disliked so. And he doesn't love her either. He's not any happier when he's around her than he usually is.

She smiled sadly, her eyes filled with tears that she couldn't shed in these dreams. "Is he ever happy, then?"

I buried my head in her hair to hide my embarrassment.

"Is that all?" she encouraged. No. It wasn't. Tanya was replacing _her, _the woman I was with right now , and I wasn't happy with that. She was replacing everything, without even soothing my father's agony on any level.

"No, Mummy, it's not," I growled and she seemed to grin like Daddy always did, whenever I acted this way "She's replacing you!" Tears burst forth and her cool fingers brushed them away, while she hummed a song similar to my

"That's not a bad thing," she disagreed gently, tilting my head up with her fingers to kiss my cheek. "Daddy deserves to have another woman in his life."

I was almost indignant now. "I'm a woman, too, you know, mother."

"No, love, I mean, he needs a wife. Hasn't grandmamma explained this to you?"

I blushed crimson. "Of course she has. But we shouldn't talk about these things."

"That wasn't my point, love. What I mean is that, despite the fact that he constantly points out your all he will ever need and that nothing else is as good as you are," constantly tells you that you're all he'll ever need, and that no one else is as good as you her cool fingertip touched my nose playfully, "which is true, you can't fill a number of roles, as badly as he may want you to. Does that make sense, Nessie?"

I nodded grudgingly. At times I was jealous of the fact that he called me Bella by accident.

"Want to take a walk?" she asked after a second, smiling playfully as she pulled me up to my feet.

We went everywhere. She even led me into the mill, pointing out that unless I wanted to give Daddy a heart attack I shouldn't go there. Then she took me into the more beautiful looking orchards that edged on the woods. Suddenly, she dropped my wrist.

Her brown hair was soaked with moonlight as she disappeared into the tickets of trees. Suddenly her brown eyes glittered mischievously while fading into the bushels, her fingers disappeared—I wasn't a sixteen year old girl anymore, just a child. I was faintly confused as I stumbled after her into the small forest, following her voice.

Just like everything about my mother, her voice in my dreams had a soothing, musical quality to it that seemed to calm everything down. I had just been holding her hand, my small chubby fingers locked onto her pale, tiny wrist,but she had suddenly disappeared.

Where was she? Her voice kept on calling on to me, a soft musical hum that seemed to have been sung rather than spoken, but I _couldn't_ find her.

"_Nessie_." Her voice was an appealing peal of laughter spoken to me from the dark. "_Find me, love. Find me, Renesmee…_"

My choked wails of alarm rang higher and higher as I stumbled around in the bushels, until the rosebuds became the thorns of winter. Her voice kept calling out to me like a song, and I stumbled after her, my pink silky frock torn by the thick thorns all around me". I could imagine my nanny's cries of outrage when she found me, but didn't care. Where was my mother? Her hair kept on fluttering in the dark, completely unscathed by the brittle that had been flourishing oaks only moments before. The white lace of her wedding dress was just as unscathed as her perfect brown hair.

"_Find me,…" _Her laugh tinkled through the forest.

My wails were more desperate now , as I looked around. The green grass underneath my small satin ballerina flats had become a scorched ground filled with dirt, struck by drought just like the brittle branches above me. The stream of the pearly moonlight lighting everything was turning a frightening haze of yellow. I collapsed, the ground opening up below me as the thorns sprouted and wrapped around the trees like snakes. Where was Daddy? Daddy should be here, saving me like he had promised to…I wasn't only calling out for the angel I'd been looking for, but for my knight in shining armor to come rescue me. I wanted Momma to come play with me like she had in the pond before, biding me to play hide and seek inside the forest…

My wails became desperate as fright overtook me. Her voice, where was it? She wasn't calling out to me anymore, and I wanted her to.

"_Renesmee!" _

This voice was fraught with anxiety, deeper and masculine, so much more than my mother's tinkling, musical voice, but just as soothing, and also agonized. Something shook me violently. I wished for my mother's angelic voice, but this was also something I could welcome.

"Renesmee, love?"

My eyelids fluttered open. My father's face was blur in spite of the candlelight at my bedside. His bright emerald green eyes were filled with anxiety as he shook me, so gently now it was hardly shaking, like I was made of priceless porcelain. He cuddled me to his chest tightly.

He was kneeling on my bedside and though a candle dripping with wax lay on my night table, his face was mostly lit by the strange moonlight falling through the window. His tousled bronze hair was looking even messier, thick circles under his eyes.

Those deep, lavender circles under my father's beautiful eyes weren't an oddity, neither was the iciness of his touch. I was used to the deep, lavender circles under his strange haze of green eyes, and I lifted my hand to touch them.

"Are you alright?" he whispered, his melodic voice soothing, even calming the sobs rippling free without any restraint. O managed a croaked yes—my voice was hoarser with sleep than I thought.

"I should've woken you earlier, darling, but you looked so peaceful. I'm such a terrible father," he murmured guiltily, his eyes glazed with pain. "You look so much like your mother when you sleep, sweetheart."

All his smiles were for me, all his love and all his money. My father was the richest lawyer in Chicago, and as such the most eligible bachelor but he had never even looked at another woman that wasn't my mother after she died. He never smiled, his lips a tight line unless when speaking to me, when he became ridiculously softer.

I looked at him sternly, thinking about all this, because he saw through me better than anybody else possibly could – almost as if he could read my thoughts.

"You're an angel, you know that?" he murmured, pressing his lips to my forehead, and then lifting me from his lap reluctantly. He tucked me under a heavy quilt and waited for my eyelids to close.

He blew out the candle and then fell back to the old rocking chair in front of the window seat, his face lit by the gas lamp as he watched me intently. He didn't say anything, and I didn't either. I just kept my hands buried under the pillow, my head sunken and my eyes opened.

"Sleep, love," he said after a second, pinching the bridge of his nose, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"You're not sleeping," I pointed out.

His answering smile was grim.

I shook my head in disapproval, actually pained. He only slept under heavy dosages of whisky in his study, but as far as he should be concerned, I had never been there. I had found it as a little girl, when looking for pictures of my mother. I snuck there often just to look at the picture of her wedding day, the only picture I had found, kept under the loose board of the drawer of his desk. One time, he had forgotten to lock the whisky cabinet, a cabinet stuffed with several heavy alcoholic beverages, and as an eager little girl I had opened it. I brought the housekeeper, but she just muttered something in shock and led me out of the study to scold me.

She had been severally scolded for scolding _me _later, and something about grief and bad handling had been tossed around by the housekeeper, who inexplicably remained employed.

The only time I had seen him drunk had been after I had had a nightmare. He had rushed to me straight away as he heard my screaming, and he had smelled of something strong and pungent. I had asked, but he had shrugged it off gently and tucked me to bed. He left, and I had peeked from the banister. He slammed the door of his study so hard it shook with anger his anger tossed a bottle so hard I heard it crash against the wall and then watched his angry, fanatical shadow as he took another swig off the bottle.

All my nightmares and dreams had been about my mother. I had a feeling his dreams were too—after all, I heard people whisper. I heard what they said. The only reason he hadn't followed my mother after she died was that she left him with a tiny daughter to care for.

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**Author's Note: **This is my first fanfic. Thanks to the wonderful Irish Froggy for betaing this story and for her support. Please review..I accept Anonymous Reviews and try to reply to all the signed reviews.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two **

"Can you tell me about my mother?" It was a question that I had been craving to ask, almost as badly as I craved the answer, and yet, in my head, I had asked it a million times.

I had never come so prepared to one of the visits in my grandmother's sitting room—and I had come with the sole purpose of asking her about the magical stranger that was my mother.

I had my best gown, even if I already had the best seamstress gowns imaginable. I was wearing few strokes sof makeup to darken my already thick lashes, making sure that they were long enough to brush my cheekbones. My hair was pinned appropriately into a twist on the crown of my head, with only a few strands flying free, my cheeks pinched so that a rose-colored blush could creep over them and highlight the red in my hair. I asked gently, tilting my head towards my gloved hands on my lap, ankles twisted, as I peeked at her from underneath my lashes. She'd labeled this as 'utterly endearing', and I was ready to use it against her to get my way.

She gasped.

With a crack, the porcelain cup of tea fell back to the tabletop, a few drips of the sour, gray-looking liquid falling against the laced mantle-top. She looked as if she had swallowed a lemon instead of tea and fanned herself with her loose glove, as if instead of being a fairly cool autumn evening it was the middle of the square market in the middle of august.

"Well, darling, I think I've answered that question before," she chortled pleasantly, smiling sheepishly and dismissing it with a wave of her hand. "She died of the cholera in the spring of 1903, sometime after you were born."

"I know," I nearly snapped back, but held back my usually foul temper,"But I was really wondering if you could supply me with more information, considering my father is rarely amenable on the subject."

"You asked _him_?" she crowed loudly. Raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows and nearly falling from her chair, she gawked at me. "What exactly did he do?"

I resisted rolling my eyes. A few seconds ago she had told me '_raising one's voice in a tearoom is utterly inappropriate and shows ill-mannered upbringing' _and now she was crowing like a hen. Typical.

"Well, I really daren't ask him, he'd become so upset," I said meekly, eyeing her warily.

He just _couldn't_ be rude—he always treated me like I was a glass doll worth millions of dollars, like I was something precious. But even so, I didn't dare ask him because I was frightened at the _idea _of his reaction.

Yet, it would've been hardly appropriate to voice my concern to my grandmother. She was the most well-connected and well bred lady in the entire city, and had devoted every spare moment of her busy social life making sure that I would someday find proper husband, or otherwise become as respected as she was. Therefore, in order to shape me into a well-mannered, 'lovely' young lady who should someday becomea wife, she never told me anything.

Not that my father's status and money couldn't buy me a husband, even if I was a horrendous looking hag. The clerks in my grandfather's law firm – and thereby under my father's command – and even the ones higher in the hierarchy devoted entire parties to courting me.

"It was darling, it was," she agreed distractedly, as the maid grabbed the teacup and replaced with a new one. She was glancing in the direction of the window, her face white, as if she were expecting a ghost to come and grab her. "I'll make sure to speak to your father about his manners. So, I hear your father is leaving with Dr. Cullen for London?"

I sighed nearly imperceptibly. She had once again dismissed the burning curiosity for my mother with another one of her ridiculously flat and superficial questions. I nodded absently, sipping some more tea. I was even vaguely annoyed at the guilt from having biscuit to nibble on, before she could once again crow like a hen and say I was eating like a field hand.

I flattened my skirt, already bored out of my wits with the ridiculous conversation, staring down at my lap, which seemed a lot more interesting than Betsy Jenner's new beau. The pins were already digging into my scalp, and it wasn't even eight yet. But my grandmother chattered on and on about the latest gossip and her friend's grandchildren, oblivious to the fact that I was bored to death.

"Renesmee," she barked after an hour of a droning monologue about the feather trends for hats. "Are you even listening? Stop letting your mouth hang in such an unkempt manner! Straighten up, for heaven's sakes, this is not a funeral, and in such an event I would want you as straight as a bedpost. Good lord, Renesmee! Turn around and look at me!"

Sluggishly, I did as she instructed. "Yes, Grandmamma?" I yawned. Her eyes flashed dangerous, so I fluttered my eyelids at her, and she seemed to soften.

"My, what time is it?" She turned to stare at the grandfather clock and then back again to me. She smiled softly, and then stroked my cheek. "You must be tired, darling. I'll fetch the carriage. Lillian shall chaperone. Your grandfather's ill and I truly wouldn't want you catching it. I'll send your regards."

She rose steadily and then dropped the napkin to her chair, clapping her hands. Her hair was graying, but it was still the stunning auburn I had inherited, her eyes the same fiery green of my father's. While hers were cold and gemlike, my father's were warm and adoring, even if both darkened into gemstones at the edges of the fierce pupils. Her hair, despite the gray, was pinned on the crown of her head, her skin barely wrinkled and as ivory and pale as mine.

Her two hard emeralds fell on me, flushed and twinkling with pleasure, as she took a breath of utter satisfaction. Like she was some sort of craftsman eyeing her vase, she seemed to be utterly pleased at the fact that she had raised me into becoming her shadow. But that was exactly what I was to her—to anyone—a vase, that was hollow inside, and filled with air.

I was already in the carriage by the time Lillian arrived. She didn't speak as she stepped into the carriage with the help of the coachman, a dark boy named Seth who wasn't exactly of color as we know it, but rather a russet tone I found enchantingly attractive. He flashed a smile at me while Lillian, complaining of rheumatism, fell onto the seat across from mine, her hands wrapped in her threadbare brown shawl.

Her skin was as crinkled as that of an overripe peach, but I found her big, blue eyes wise and comforting. She had been my caregiver since I was a baby, and did the things my often grieving father never had the time to do.

It was quite the ride from my grandmother's house to my father's. The clanking of the hooves and the soft whistling Jacob was making did little to easy my anxiety.

"Lillian?" I asked after a second of watching the sky darken into soft lavender.

She looked up. "Yes, Miss?"

Biting my lip, speaking slowly and tentatively, I managed to mumble out: "Could you tell me about my mother?

She gasped and her pink skin suddenly turned as white as if she had seen a ghost, her eyes wheezing with frantic alarm as she clasped her hand to her mouth "Miss, really, we don't have permission to tell you anything…" Her voice broke into a desperate stutter as she eyed me pleadingly, her eyes filling with tears.

"Did my father forbid you from telling me anything?" My eyes narrowed into slits, making Lillian release a whimper of fright. I was putting her in a dangerous position, but I was too spoiled to care. My father would fire her if she told me anything, but he would also likely fire her simply for denying me what I wanted. Seeing her there, huddled like a defenseless puppy, she would be most likely to tell me anything if I didn't threaten her. Her bright blue eyes met mine for a second, and then her skinny arms unfolded from her protective stance.

She took a deep breath, "If you don't tell him a thing."

"I won't," I promised earnestly, looking at her intently, the heat risinginside the carriage cabin as she took one last calming breath.

"You have her eyes," she said, a smile playing on the corner of her lips. My heart surged with joy, a beam breaking free. I couldn't have been happier. "Her name was Isabella. We called her all Bella."

I raised an eyebrow. Isabella was quite a bold choice for a name, exotic and daring like I hoped my mother would be.

She held back a breath and then finally spoke, threatening to stop if I didn't let her tell a good story. I nodded with a smile and then leaned on the wall of the carriage to listen.

"Bella Swan arrived on a pretty, cold winter evening. I remember as clear as if it had been yesterdaywith brown eyes as pretty as yours and hair dark like chocolate. Your father has always had this color of an army cast, hasn't he, but you got that lovely ivory color from her."

"Swan?" The last name didn't sound familiar, and Lillian seemed relieved at my confusion.

"Yes, well. She had come from a factory—" she ignored the fact that my jaw fell to the floor—"and hers had closed with a fire that broke that year, 1901. Lucky thing, and Mary, god rest her soul, the old cook got her a job as the scullery maid. And then, Mr. Edward, such a rotten, handsome thing he was, he fell for the scullery maid."

"Mrs. Masen went as mad as a hatter when she saw the scullery maid wearing a diamond ring and slapped Bella. I got one of the biggest shocks in my life—and quite a long one I've had—when Mr. Edward held his mother's hands back and screamed at her for laying a hand on 'is Bella," she swooned "he came with a bucket of water to brush the slap away like 'e treats you now, and threatened to leave if Mrs. Masen didn't agree to let them marry." She sighed lustfully again. The lust directed at my father from the maids was one thing, but Lillian's lust was downright disgusting.

"And oh, how he loved her! When they married, they introduced your mama as Isabella Dwyer, Mr. Masen's orphaned ward. Your father went mad with joy when she told him she was expecting his child, and I delivered you when it came time. You were quite a thing to look at" she added with a beam. "I remember it. Your Momma was as big as an elephant then, about to give birth at any second. Her water broke at the crack of dawn, and Mr. Edward he, didn't want to leave her, but she told him to, and then by the time she let us fetch Mr. Edward we had to fetch the doctor too, and by then she was so far along, the room was as hot as an oven.

"And then they had a pretty baby girl and they were so happy."

Her face turned dark, sour.

"Then, Miss Bella announces she's expecting his second baby, but then that—" her face twisted with hate as she held back swear words, "illness came along and she miscarried his baby and days later—" there was a hint of hesitation in her voice, "—she fell ill with the cholera. Mr. Edward was devastated." She looked pleased at using her big words, and delighted at my apparent interest.

"He stayed locked in his study for days, and one day the butler broke down the door and there he was with a revolver pressed to his temple. But then you burst out crying," her eyes glowed affectionately, "and he remembered the last thing Miss Bella ever told him to do, to take care of their little angel, and so he put the revolver down and went up to the nursery where you were crying and then he lifted you, the pretty little thing you were, held you in his arms, and shut the door.

"He came out a few hours later to get your food, and then went right back up to the nursery. That went on for a few days, until after about a month, Mr. Edward decided to leave you and go to work, but he always returned to you first. He loves you," she finished with a sigh, her eyes deep, imploring and penetratingly blue. "Never hurt him, Renesmee. You're his moon, his angel, his life now. He can't live without you. You've been his light in the darkness."

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A father walked along the park, holding his daughter's hand while he swung her like a pendulum with both hands. There were deep circles under his eyes, his skin looked yellow, like a ripe fruit – and yet anybody who knew him knew that his skin was in fact returning to normal –and his eyes were stone cold for anybody walking by.

Yet, for the little girl he held, better dressed than most women walking on the street—white satin stockings and charcoal shoes, a pale silk frock and ribbons knotted into her pigtails, giggling and flashing a dimpled smile , her cheeks a soft, beautiful pink—his smile turned into one of utter adoration.

The father smiled at his daughter's giggles, though the gesture seemed to cause him indefinite amounts of pain. He continued to swing on and on, smiling at the moist kisses his porcelain doll planted on his shabbily shaved cheek.

That is why the young couple walking down the street, laughing and shooting glances of love and desire at each other, while sheheld a bouquet of daffodils in one hand and her lover's arm in the other, would not have noticed how Edward Cullen shot a glare in their direction. His was a glare full of jealousy, anger, loathing, hatred…and pain.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

That night I decided to skip supper. I thanked Lillian for her information quietly, but the new story she'd given me raised as many questions as it had answered. She left grudgingly, scared as a chicken before slaughter, forgetting about her 'crippling' rheumatism. Her big blue eyes grew wide with fear every time I did as much as opening my mouth to breathe.

She wouldn't even dare raise her voice, because that never went well—instead, she shot me a warning glance and limped to her room behind the kitchen, where the servants were preparing a meal. I told her I would be skipping dinner, asked her for warm water, and rushed to my room to shut the door behind me.

Opening the door, I ran straight to the mirror next to the window. Slowly, I pulled out the pins that were digging into my scalp, letting each thick, bronze curl fall free. Falling to the bed, arm thrown carelessly over my shoulder and freed hair I looked up into the canopy.

The wallpaper in my room was of elegant flowers and a soft pink was a soft pink, decorated with elegant flowers. It then hit me that when my girlfriends had sighed with envy at my goods, it wasn't entirely irrational. I had always had everything—the best of everything, not once being mistreated by anyone.

Lillian's footsteps cut my pondering off as she came in holding a kettle of warm water which she poured into the washbasin by the night table, tossing away the tattered version of Pride and Prejudice without a second glance. She dismissed my reading as manly, usually.

She was limping, but for once not complaining about her rheumatism. Instead, she was quiet as she soaked a piece of cloth into the steaming water, and fetched my nightgown from my wardrobe.

She tossed it into the thick duvet and, just as quietly, grunted for me to turn. She helped me get out of my dress and out of my undershirt and tightened corset, and then started tangling her fingers into my hair to make braids.

I washed quickly, merely splashing my face and hands with the water, and then made a quiet business of rinsing out my mouth. She kept her lips sealed tight as she took my dress I whispered a light 'thank you'. She grunted and then left, while I wrapped the quilt around myself. I turned on the gas lamp and started reading the tattered version of Pride and Prejudice, sinking to the pillow, eyelids fluttering.

After an hour of reading, there was a light knock on my door. My father opened it with a soft smile, his eyes tired, and the circles under his eyes tired, with black circles underneath them. . Despite the tenderness of his smile it still looked weary and painful.

"Aren't you hungry, love?" he asked gently, sitting on my bed. His hand came up to cup my cheek, his touch as cold as death. I held his fingers in mine for a second, attempting to somehow warm them, before he dropped his hand.

I shook my head no and let my head rest against the pillow, shutting the book. His fingertips started tracing my face so gently I would be unable to feel them if they weren't as frigid as death.

He turned off the gas lamp, kissing my forehead until my eyelids fluttered open urgently, and I knotted my fingers into his shirt. "Daddy?"

"Yes, my love?"

I held my lip under the prison of my teeth while he sat back on the bed, smiling amusedly as he stared at the scrunch in my brow. His eyes lit up with recognition and then seemed dead for the briefest second, somewhere far away. I capitalized on his absence, trying desperately to find a way to phrase what I was about to say.

"I was wondering if—I was, wondering, if…if you would tell me about my mother?" I squeezed my eyes shut, opening them only to see him impassive, frozen. After all, I expected anything but the way his eyes seemed to glaze with pain and then roll back into his head like they'd been replaced by coal.

Every time he had looked at me with emerald green, adoring eyes seemed to have been thrown into oblivion the moment he set them on me. It hurt like the lash of a whip to have him look at me so coldly.

"Where did this come from, Renesmee?" he asked icily. He never used my full name—never even called me by it—and he was suddenly so furious his nostrils were flaring, his face flushed like I had slapped life into it.

"I was just curious…" I murmured, looking into my hands.

"Curious?" he raised his eyebrow mockingly, cold, icy laughter breaking through as he glared. "Really?"

"I didn't see anything wrong with asking…" I noticed the quavering of his fingers then, the way he was trembling with anger.

"Asking?" He was mocking again, stuttering, his voice pitched high with stress as he snickered, eyes rolling with frightening hatred. I didn't look up.

"Answer, Renesmee. Where did the curiosity come from?" he growled, a deep rumble in his chest as his hand came up to clasp my chin. The pressure of his grip was so hard I could feel my bones sting.

"I don't know," I stuttered, tears breaking as he glared, my chin still caught in the fierceness of his grasp.

"Answer me."

"I already told you!"

"NOW!" He was yelling now, his eyes blazing. Sinking both hands into my shoulders, he shook me so hard that I hit my head against the headboard.

I stammered through the tears a determined "NO!", so hoarsely it sounded like a whisper. He swung me off the bed and shook me violently, his fingers quivering. When he finally let go, I collapsed against the table") I panted, trying to breathe,("breathe"but it caught in my chest through tears and the pain of the blow.

"NOW, RENESMEE!" he roared, before finally raising his hand and slapping me, harder than I had ever been touched before. The eye he hit was burning, twitching as I tried to raise an eyelid. I held my hand over the injured eye.

He stomped to the door. His eyes held mine for a second, black as lumps of coal before he hissed under his breath. "That's the last time I'll hear you utter a word about your mother."

He grasped a bottle of perfume and threw it with the full force of his arm into the corner where I was huddled. The last thing I felt were the bits of glass sinking into my scalp, the thick alcohol of the perfume burning my nose like bleach, the warm water falling into my hair. Then everything went black.

There was a dry ache in my throat the moment my eyes fluttered open. It stung to even try to open the left one, so it fell back into place as quickly as I had opened it. Sun streamed across the window, bathing the duvet in plain bright sunlight. Groaning, I tried to roll backwards to block the sun away, barely aware of the hums of desperate voices and the ache in my back. The pain there clutched me senseless until I figured it was best not to move.

The ache was still in my throat when I woke up later that morning, and my eyes burned. I tried hard to hold back a whimper at the pain. The sky was turning blue outside, lighting the room in gray but still making me want to go back to sleep. That's when I noticed his head buried into the duvet, but I didn't think to even touch him.

I crawled to the other side of the bed, holding back a few whimpers of pain and then turning around slightly to peek at his face. He raised his head, his hair messy, his eyes wild and bloodshot, his skin paler than usual.

"Renesmee?" he croaked, his voice hoarse as he looked up, his eyes burning. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry, love, I—"

"Don't." It was a cold snap, icy, silent and unaffectionate as I turned around to bury my head in my pillow.

"Please, Nessie, sweetheart," he begged, his voice agonized, "I'll spend the rest of my life trying—"

"Stop."

He didn't move and followed my order exactly. I rolled around so that I was facing him, so that he knew I wasn't struggling with the resolve to not even look at him. I just breathed quietly, hand outstretched so that our fingertips were almost touching, but he made no sign to move away from my cold stare.

"Why, Daddy?" I wasn't cold anymore as the last word broke, just like the tears that started to pour from my eyes nonstop. "Is it that you don't like me anymore?"

He snorted, amused as he tenderly brushed the tears away. I recoiled away from the touch, frightened by his hands and their possibilities. He cringed back like I had whipped him with a lash, closing his eyes and letting a teardrop slide down his cheek.

"I could never dislike you, Renesmee. I can't live with myself knowing that I hurt you the tiniest bit. You're the only reason I've held on for so long, the only thing it would hurt me to lose now. I can't live without your mother, and yet, you remind me so much of her its painful." His explanation was gentle as he removed his hand, like each movement tortured him. A sad smiled hovered on his face. "I love you so much it hurts."

"Your mother was the first girl that I found interesting, smart, witty, amusing, _likeable,_" he whispered. "You're so much like her it would be quite next to impossible to find you even the tiniest bit dislikable."

The tears were falling now, soaking my lips till I could taste the salt in them. I kissed his cheek and closed my eyes.

By the next morning, there were two things lying on the foot of my bed. One was a thick photo album, bound in red leather, and the second was an envelope with my name scrawled in elegant, beautiful handwriting.

More interested at the second, I took the envelope from where it was resting and opened it gingerly.

_August 19th, 1918_

_Renesmee, _

_On the winter of 1901, a girl from the recently ravaged cotton factor arrived with the cook Mary to the kitchen. She had a few burns along her arms from the fire that had spread,and the boy of the house dismissed her as ugly and plain. He found the burns on the side of her arms quite and utterly repulsive. _

_Her name was Isabella Swan, one of the unemployed factory workers of the outskirts, after the factory had gone up in flames. _

_She was hired as a scullery maid reluctantly because of the burns along her limbs, but she proved to be a hard worker hard worker. Even so, she had been there a few weeks before the boy noticed her existence. She was browsing to one of the books in the study while helping the indisposed chambermaid. She had the same insanely adorable, charming scrunch in her brow that you do. The angry boy demanded why she was daring to touch the books whe nshe impishly explained she wanted to learn to read, and developed spite for the boy. The dislike was mutual. _

_That would not be the last of their encounters however, and the boy, the rich boy, was surprised when the scullery maid dared challenge him intellectually. It brought out a side of him he didn't know existed. The boy was, if anything, arrogant and spiteful, but she saw something in him few girls did. She saw the bad side of him, which, in contrast, made his good side even more apparent to her._

_The boy became jealous when she arrived to work after Sunday church on some boy's, and quickly realized after firing her—falsely accusing her of theft—that he loved her. The girl returned, and they fell in love. He missed the scrunch in her brow, the lovely wrinkling of her nose, her passionate speaking and the depth of her brown eyes. _

_The boy was quick to propose,and he couldn't have been happier. When the mistress of the house saw a beautiful engagement ring on the girl's finger, she thought that Bella had stolen it, and was quick to slap her, but the boy came to her defense and revealed the truth about his feelings. _

_The scullery maid and the boy married in the most beautiful wedding in decades, with the girl dressed in the most beautiful of wedding gowns and the most lavish of jewelry, even if she loathed dress up. _

_A few weeks into the honeymoon and Isabella discovered she was expecting a child. Her fright was quickly overwhelmed by her joy, and they returned from Paris back to Chicago, where the boy had bought a house away from his mother's. A few months later and days shy of her 18th birthday, Bella gave birth to a baby girl, the most beautiful baby imaginable, whom they named Renesmee. _

_Renesmee grew healthy and thriving and became the most beautiful proof of their Bella was growing thin and weak; inexplicably until they found out she was expecting another baby. Thrilled as they were, Bella miscarried the baby a few months into her pregnancy, and then caught the cholera epidemic quickly spreading._

_She died a few weeks later. Into my grief for my lost baby, and my lost wife, I found comfort in you, a tiny angel who seemed weak and defenseless – someone for me to protect. If I lost you, Renesmee, life would be absolutely pointless. Your mother was like a meteor shooting across the sky to light up my life and make) it beautiful. You've kept the glow of the meteor like a star, kept beauty where there should be misery. _

_I love you, Renesmee, more than life, and I will spend the rest of my days trying to regain your trust and hope that you will open up to me again. You're the best part of my life, more, the only part of it. _

_I beg for your forgiveness, _

_All my love,_

_Daddy_

Light tears fell on the yellow, crinkling paper, brown and tattered with age. I held them back with a handkerchief pressed to my cheeks while I flipped towards the first page. (page of the photo album. Photos were rare, really, and these should be so much more so, considering cameras back then were privileges.

The first photo behind the hard, leather cover page had been that of a woman who I didn't dare recognize. She looked stiff with fear, a soft, tiny smile on her lips as she looked awkwardly on to the camera. The black and white photo had turned yellowish with age, and yet with each new one, her smile seemed to add millions of colors to the entire photograph.

A cascading veil fell down the crown of her head, tiny and thin braids curling up around the gemstone brooches in her dark hair. Her skin was a pale ivory, the same tone as mine, if not a tinge pinker, despite its translucent thickness. Her eyes were dark, too, framed by thick lashes, her eyes an unrecognizable yet deep color. Her dress showed her shoulders a little, despite the length of the sleeves, done in intricate lace and framing her tiny wrists.

I continued to flip the pages, fingers lingering on my mother's photos longer than on any other. My father's pictures caught my attention most of all—his face glowing, no circles under his eyes and not a speck of cold. Or at least, it wasn't the iciness I was used to. It was like a bit of a mischievously crooked grin with a tinge of cool smugness.

Perhaps, the only picture that made me pry it away from its page was the one of my mother with an aging man. He had the same dark eyes as her and a speck of curly hair on his head, standing with an air of awkwardness. His arm hung around her uncertainly

In an unrecognizable, messy handwriting of someone who had just learnt to write, the bottom of the back said _Isabella Masen and Charles Swan, July 22th, 1902. _My mother, in turn, also had a boated stomach, but with the swell of pregnancy, her hand cupping her belly tenderly.

My fingers froze, excitement creeping over with a new sense of fear. My grandfather's name was Charles Swan. I had a grandfather, if he still was alive. I placed the picture back under the hinges, minding the crinkled edges.

With a swift movement, I turned the page. It was a picture that was taken intimately, not with the same stiffness of the picture before it. My mother and father were both seated on the porch, wooden swing on the outside of the house, his hands on her bloated stomach, his face glowing, her head on his shoulder. Around the photo, there were drops that seemed to have made the thick paper thinner, lighter and more worn. They formed flowers around the edges of the album. Teardrops.

That wasn't the only picture of my pregnant mother; the last one before the album ended was before my birth on August 31st of 1902, meaning that my parents wed in 1901, and that my mother had been 17 then, according to the letter.

My grandfather's name was Charlie Swan. And maybe he could be the key to discovering who my mother was.

I flung my arms around my father's neck the moment he came through the door, ignoring the burn in my purpling eye and the gripping one on my lower back. Burying my face into his neck, the tears came faster, soaking it in salt water.

"Thank you," I sobbed, my voice a mumble as he lifted my feet of the air and hugged me a little closer to his chest, the relief flooding his voice.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured, a tiny tear soaking the fibers of my thick, auburn hair. "Sweetheart, I never meant to do something so horrible, I couldn't live with myself if-"

I brought a finger to my lips the moment he put me on the ground, but he wouldn't let go of my hand, and even then, the touch left goose bumps. What he had done left me uncertain, as much as I loved him. I still gripped his fingers fiercely, even if he seemed reluctant" to touch me.

"So much like your mother," he murmured, cupping my face. I was still wary of his touch, and the temperature of his frigid skin – it left goose bumps on my face. An icy tear dribbled down his cheek. "So much like my Bella."

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**Author's Note: Once again, thanks to Irish Froggy for being a wonderful beta. I have to say that the response to this story has been depressing...I have a few chapters written out, but reviews would really help me want to publish them. =) **


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four **

**Charlie Swan **

There was a thin veil of smoke clouding the area, cloaking the flimsy houses in a thin gray puff of mist, which hid the rays of sunlight. The bars were hidden inside the mud brick homes; the air and the pungent odor were insufferable as I waddled across the streets, my coarse vest damp with sweat, borne of deep rooted anxiety.

However, I ducked across the dirty threshold, ignoring the squeaks of rats as they scrambled across the streets and the cries of men as they fell on the nearest stools by the bar. Hoarse with fatigue, I asked for a beer. Truly, there was no better beer than the ones I got here, in the damp, inhumane conditions on the back of an alley. Here, beer was made for its purpose—to leave all your troubles behind.

These days, I only dropped by bars for heavy dosages of beer, back where the bear('beer') was strong. I finished my pungent, stale drink idly in just a few swallows, as if hoping the alcohol would send the pictures in my mind away. She was going mad as a hatter, and as everybody else would agree. Like her mother, Bella would never think things through thoroughly enough.

I didn't blame her for her choices, but I had never encouraged them. I tossed a few pennies into the nearest tin can and left the bar without a second thought.

If anything, I wanted to forget Bella existed, just as she had urged me to, but it was difficult. I walked out of the cramped streets, into an area where the smells were bearable and nowhere near as potent.

It wasn't like those streets where Bella used to live, where the ladies wore large hats and the sidewalks were wide and clean, and the houses as polished as gold. And yet, it wasn't like out the alley I had just come from, where factories, smoke and death were still a reality.

It was a relief to know that at least Bella wasn't a scullery maid, or constantly risking burning or tearing her fingers. Going to work back when Bella had been a little younger had been a hellish ordeal. It seemed a little paranoid to be fretting over a fifteen year old, but I still believed nothing good could come from living with Renee Dwyer for more than three years.

In fact, the factory fire of 1901 had killed many young girls from ages six through fifteen, and now having those rare letters informing me of my daughter's whereabouts was an even a bigger relief. I was getting better at reading, and by now I wasn't mediocre at what I did.

I was a clerk, and a smart, practical man as far as I was concerned, but maybe too caught up in what had been the 1890s. Trying my best(Make this the beginning of a new sentence: "I tried my best…") not to get caught up with the world I had glimpsed sixteen years ago was difficult. I would certainly never be invited back.

So it was no surprise that my mouth fell open at the sight of a carriage sitting on the sidewalk. This wasn't something you saw often—I didn't frequent stores for the wealthy. This carriage had to be overly expensive, perhapsas expensive as a car.

I eyed it uncertainly, glancing at the coachman with even more uncertainty, even if he looked utterly nervous to be there. He was shaking, his dark, long fingers quavering as he patted the large, white horse for comfort.

I didn't make any other sound as I flung the door to the shop open. The boy helping me, Jacob, was smiling pleasantly at the visitor and shrugging at my dumbstruck expression.

The visitor was the prettiest thing I had seen in years. Even here, in this dimly lit, lower middle-class shop, Renesmee Masen was gorgeous. Her eyelashes were still thick and black, and those deep, mesmerizing brown eyes still managed to stun as she peeked through them shyly. Her hair was pinned into a pompadour on the crown of her head, with small braids crawling into the elegant mass of bronze locks. Those same auburn curls, shining in the darkness, fell to her chest elegantly, and her lips were still thick and beautifully pink. Her cheekbones were as high as that of the man I loathed most, and yet her eyes were the comforting, deep chocolate brown that I loved.

And even then, I could see her wealth. A pair of pearl earrings decorated her earlobes, and her hair was decorated with a gold butterfly brooch, which was studded with diamonds. Her dress was long, and decorated with handsome lace patterns, the buttons on her neckline made out of gold and the dress perfectly fitting right down to her tiny wrists.

She rose from her chair fluidly, even shyly, still peeking through her lashes and looking down at the floor.

"Hey, Charlie," Jacob crowed, making me want to break his miserable nose into pieces. "This is Renesmee _Masen_! _Masen, _as in Masen and Co, as in the law firm! The law firm. In your shop! Can you believe it? She's telling me all these wonderful—"

He stopped at my glare and then grinned. I doubted the 10 Plagues of Egypt could wipe that grin off of his face. I grunted, wiped my hands on my trousers, and then gawked at the girl. My fears were confirmed as my gaze fell on her shaking chaperone. She peeked shyly at her feet.

"Good day, Mr. Swan," she mumbled, and then her eyes rose quickly, peeking into mine with the shelter of those thick, fluttering eyelashes.

"Good day to you, Miss Masen," I muttered, dumbstruck, as I walked slowly to the counter. The only sounds were the squeal of the leather rubbing against the worn wooden floors and my somehow accelerated breathing.

My eyes founds her for a second, the innocent, beautifully naïve pools of brown telling me what wouldn't come out of her rosebud mouth. At least, not for a few hours. She nodded nearly imperceptibly, tilting her heart-shaped face towards Jacob so discreetly the idiot wouldn't have noticed.

"Jacob, could you please go to the post office, fetch a package for me?"

The truth was, there was no package, but I had to talk to her. Jacob grumbled, got up from his seat, and then grabbed his hat from the stand near the entrance. He tipped it towards her with a peevish grin, and she giggled. The sound was delicious, elegant, ladylike—a fluttering of wind chimes as she clasped a thin, delicate hand to her mouth.

"How can I help you, Miss Masen?" I asked after a second, sweat breaking out across my forehead. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat but didn't necessarily indicate that she had a plan. Did her father know she was here?

"I was wondering," she said finally, after a second of hesitation, throwing the power of her chocolate eyes at me like she knew of the wonders she could do with them. Deep and brown, unlike anything in the world, they seemed to work their way through mine, "if you could provide me with information on this?"

Out of nowhere, she drew a small, crinkled piece of paper, and then walked towards the counter. Under the flicker of the lamp, I could see the yellow in her lids, like they'd been bruised. That didn't draw my attention away from the object in her delicately feminine hands, however. She unfolded it, revealing a black and white photograph that was yellow and crinkled with age, creased on the edges and clearly worn.

Bella and I were there, in the background of her husband's summer house, her stomach bloated with pregnancy. The both of us stiff with the awkwardness of the situation. She had opened up to Edward then, who had been more affectionate than was imaginable, stroking her belly with his thumb and kissing exposed flesh in an inappropriate manner, making me ridiculously uncomfortable with the whole situation. I was there though, looking younger than I had in ages.

She flipped the photo over delicately and then pointed at the messy handwriting of my daughter on the back.

_Isabella Masen and Charles Swan, July 22, 1902. _

"You see, Mr. Swan, that would be my late mother, Isabella Masen and that would be me," her voice quavered slightly as she traced the shape of my 'late' daughter with her fingertip. Is that what she'd been told? I froze as she brought her fingertip to my own disgruntled shape. "And according to the back of the picture, you would be the man to her left—I was wondering if you could tell me why that is?"

She spoke gently, while she waited for me to sort through a jumble of incoherent thoughts and ideas, all swarming and waiting to reconcile.

_No, I can't tell you a thing. Something might slip. _

_Your father broke my daughter's heart._

_I can't even think about how you've grown up under his unthinkable ways._

_What have you been told? _

_I'm not even sure if I you know I'm your grandfather. _

_You're beautiful. _

"How about a cup of tea?"

I led her up into the tiny room above the shop, which was, in most circumstances, less than ideal. The fireplace was ashen and often home to critters, the sitting room and kitchen cramped together tightly. The only furniture was a small table with two chairs, a stove, and a mattress for Jacob to sleep on. Next to the stove was a small chest of drawers, which held a copper kettle and enough plates and silverware for a decent meal. A tiny, worn and moldy door led to my room, which was no more than a mattress, a heater and a few suitcases, which housed a scarce amount of cheap clothes.

She didn't seem repulsed as I motioned towards one of the wooden chairs with a grunt—she sat and smiled shyly, peeking from under her lashes, her smile perfect, polite and charming.

"I'm afraid I don't have a lot to offer," I mumbled, pouring some tea into one of the worn china cups Bella had given me years ago. I meant it for both, the photo and the tea. I didn't know what I could tell her, so I just settled for speaking to her about her life. Bella often wrote wistfully of how she wished to have seen her daughter, and she wouldn't have been disappointed at the delicate beauty in front of me.

I sat down behind her, watching as she sipped some of the tea and looked around shyly. She was truly gorgeous.

"So, you say your mother died?" This seemed a coy enough question. She eyed me speculatively for a second and then peeked through her eyelashes.

"She died of cholera in the spring of 1902, when I was barely a few months old." Her voice was beautiful, despite its quavering air. The teacup shook in her hands.

"Oh," I finally breathed, not wanting to give anything away as I sorted my maze of incoherent thoughts. "That must've been terrible on your father." I tried to hide my sneer without much success.

"It was, actually," she half snapped, so quiet the cynicism was unnoticeable. She seemed defensive, her eyes narrowing the slightest bit. "He never recover-ma-married."

_There's a shock_I thought snidely. Why didn't he marry that concubine of his, then? Was he living in sin, while raising his daughter? I didn't even want to think about it. She seemed a pretty, educated, high-class girl, obviously ignorant of her father's sinful ways. Edward Masen was like an insult for me these days. After Bella's death, he had offered me plenty of money, but had refused to even let me look at his daughter, as if I couldn't offer anything as her maternal grandfather.

"And, he's been engaged, I suppose?" Ha. This one should do it. He had probably been engaged several times. I let a triumphant smile creep over me. "Before now?"

"No, of course not!" she said, outraged, even betrayed as her eyes flew as wide as saucers. "Of course he's never beenengaged _before_."

So the bastard was living in sin with his concubine. Or maybe the concubine had been ruined and he had moved on to another pretty girl like his daughter, one that was half his age. I wouldn't have argued that he was still young—he married Bella at the measly age of seventeen, for god's sakes, and now he was only thirty-four, but to argue against the fact that by thirty-four he should've been respectable was inexcusable.

"But he is engaged," she added in a small voice, a whisper, her voice breaking. "Since April of this year, he's been engaged to Miss Tanya Denali, you know her, of course?"

How could I not? That woman—a maid by 34—had the reputation of a scoundrel, the beauty of a goddess, and was probably the woman responsible for everything that had gone wrong for the past sixteen years.

"Oh," I said, trying to bite back my seething, irate little snarl. "When are they marrying, then?"

She took a polite sip of her tea. The look on her face said that the idea of slaughtering hens was more appealing to her than the coming event of her father's wedding…even if the man was still married in the eyes of the Lord. She tried to give me a tight, lopsided smile.

"This winter," she finally said, biting her lip. "December 8th."

I raised an eyebrow incredulously, but as politely as possible. "Odd choice, the dead of the winter, wouldn't you think?"

She giggled softly. The sound was lovely, like wind chimes, and it made a soft smile break across my lips.

I continued gruffly, ignoring her muffled, charming little outbreak of giggles, to shuffle uncomfortably in my chair and then humph, puffing up my chest defiantly. "So your father raised you alone?"

She gave me a tiny nod, her eyes clouding incomprehensibly. "That's one way to look at it," she said softly, suggesting a longer, elaborate answer. Had my lowlife of a son in law had his daughter raised by his lovers, then? Quite a possibility if I did say so myself.

"And, I suppose he's given everything to such a lovely girl like you, Miss Masen?" I asked scornfully, sipping on my own tea while waiting for her answer.

"Of course he has." She said so as if it was obvious, her eyes fluttering innocently. "I've never lacked a thing, save for my mother."

She looked down at her lap and then her eyelids raised a little, the lavender color there simply stunning, before she lifted them again to look at me, a tear appearing on her cheek. She tilted her head towards me, her brown eyes fierce with determination.

"I know you're her father, Mr. Swan," she said obstinately, and then her fingers held on to mine with a fierceness I hadn't known in years. "I came here, looking for answers. And I know you, better than anyone else, will give me the answers I need."

We spent hours talking, or rather, she spent hours listening eagerly about the mother that . because of her father, she had never known. At some point during the conversation, we shifted the it to talking about her father.

Her smiles were wonderful; the way her eyes lit up and the way she made the charming little charismatic frowns and faces were addictive really, and I wondered who it was that had taught her to be so enchantingly polite. Probably the barracuda that was _his _mother, had taught her such avid social skills.

It became clear that the Edward in her head and the Edward in mine were totally different people, mine more realistic than hers. Her father—to her, at least—was a knight in shining armor that could do no wrong, which she idolized as a kind, gentle and loving figure, who was naturally her primary and most important caregiver. I got from the tenor of her description and stories about herself that she was spoiled, even if her manners left a different impression.

My son-in-law was really—even if I didn't want to break it to her—a bastard who had shamelessly broken my daughter's heart by leaving her for another woman. I didn't contradict her, even when she dreamily prattled on about her father, and how he loved her and gave her jewels, trips and clothes and the best education possible. Edward didn't smile at all. In fact, if my memory served me correctly, he never smiled. He smiled at Bella, with a look of sheer adoration, but beneath a lopsided grin, he held cruel intentions.

I told her tales about her mother, myself, and her feisty grandmother, trying to avoid as much as possible the fact that Bella was still _alive_. She was clearly under the cloak of her father's lies—she didn't know the truth , for which her father was certainly to blame.

At times, my rage wanted to stutter through my tales, but I held the seething back and let her keep her childish, pristine illusion of her father. When she saw the rays of lavender, like her eyelids, break through the window, she gasped and then turned to me with a smile.

"I have to say it's a lot easier talking to you, Mr. Swan, than it is talking to my paternal grandfather," she complimented with a tiny smile and a crimson pool to her cheeks. "Much less stiff, by all definition."

"Of course, sweetheart. You know I'm always open to talk to you, as your grandfather, should you wish to return." The blood rushed to my cheeks with the awkwardness of the situation as I stroked her cheek with a fingertip.

"Thank you," she murmured, finally at the door of the shop, a smile at the corner of her lips, looking oddly serene and peaceful. "That was a lovely evening."

I held her hand in mine tighter, before she left. "You're welcome, darling. Feel free to come back anytime." I smiled tightly, looking into her pretty, dark brown eyes. She kissed my cheek, then she mumbled a goodbye promising her return.

And she did return. She came back often to listen eagerly about her mother at least once a week at noon, and left sometime before sunset, promising to return. Sometimes I repeated stories for the fun of it, pitching in details to add to her imagination. They weren't all about Bella. Some were about me and my wife, some about the life I had as a factory worker in the turn of the century. Some, however, _were _descriptions of Bella – of her eagerness for reading and helping others. Renesmee seemed quite innocently amazed half of the time.

Somewhere nearing the end of May, she announced her father's departure to London for four months. And, as if on cue, when Edward left, Bella returned.

I was really a man of few words. Nessie had gotten, for the past few weeks, the few words that rarely came out. So, I found it utterly enjoyable when Jacob found himself free for the evening and my granddaughter had tea with her paternal grandmother. I pitied Renesmee for having to attend such ridiculous event but, finally, I was alone with my thoughts. And, thankfully, I wasn't thinking about something troublesome, like Bella, or her ex-husband.

I was just sitting, watching the dust circling like planets outside under the sun's merciless grasp, drumming my fingers on the counter while running a quill over my yellowing account book. My handwriting had gotten better over the years, and I was actually quite pleased at how nice it had become after so many years of practice.

Abruptly, there was a tinkling from the little silver bell on the threshold, so startling I jumped slightly as I jerked my head towards the door.

It was Bella.

**Author's Note: Thank you so much for all the reviews! Please, please review!**


	5. Chapter Five

**Elizabeth Masen **

_April 15th, 1903 _

_Chicago, Illinois _

Elizabeth Masen twisted her fingers in her lap, eyeing the beautiful girl in front of her speculatively.

Tanya Denali was so much prettier than her daughter-in-law, who would clearly never be good enough for her Edward. Where Bella was plain and uneducated, Tanya was lovely and intelligent.

Elizabeth sighed, wrinkling her nose. Of course she had a lovely granddaughter, but she resented the fact that Renesmee—a beauty all her own—would have been even prettier had Tanya been her mother.

She stared at Tanya again, captivated by her beauty: by the strong nose and chiseled jaw, by the brilliant, icy blue eyes sparkling with malice and by the locks of strawberry blonde hair pinned at her head. So much more beautiful than Bella, who, even after she had been married to Edward (who owned nearly all the profitable businesses in town) for a year, had still dressed in glorified potato sacks.

Her lips curled evilly as Tanya jingled the little pocketful of gold coins at the hungry-looking men seated on Elizabeth's sides. She should've been ashamed at the thought of being with two bulky, burly oversized men, but Elizabeth had become accustomed to being sneaky.

Though it was nearly twilight, her son would not be home. Sighing in exasperation, Elizabeth took the bridge of her nose in between her wrinkling fingers. Every day, Edward left work eagerly to be with his wife in ungodly acts… and to see his daughter. Not that she could fault him but the latter, but she shuddered at the thought of the first.

The men at her side were sitting as straight as bedposts, clutching canes in their hands while they eyed Elizabeth suspiciously with bloodshot eyes. But she wasn't paying their moral consciences —neither looked too happy to help her with her inhumane act of all-consuming hatred—she was paying their families and their empty stomachs. In Elizabeth's mind, what would be cruel was leaving her son with that uneducated piece of cinder.

Renesmee would never need to know of her grandmother's plan—much less of her mother— and neither would Edward. She had planned it too well for anything to fail in a short-term basis, and that time frame was enough for Edward to stop grieving for the unworthy servant and for Renesmee to become accustomed to having Tanya as her primary caregiver.

All she would need to do was drop the letter in Edward's bed, and then go screaming straight into his office an hour later, after the carriage was on the highway, headed to the Bethlem New Hampshire Institute for Mental Patients.

Two years ago, Edward had threatened to take his own life if he and the girl were not allowed to marry, or leave his fortune and title to elope with her, living like some farmer. Elizabeth would have to watch like a hawk for Edward, making sure he didn't try to take his own life or drink himself dead. At least now she had reason to believe that, for his daughter's sake, he would refrain.

Tanya's beauty and charm would do the rest.

The beautiful houses of the street on which Elizabeth's son lived soon came into view, the grandest of them all being her son's. Vines of blooming honeysuckle curled around the peach-pink curtains of the smallest windows, where loose mahogany hair shimmered with the slight flutter of wind.

The carriage halted in front of Edward's house, and a boy—barely her own son's age—stumbled down to open the door with a dark hand, holding it open for her and Tanya.

Elizabeth wrapped her shawl around herself, and fixed one of the golden clips pinned to her scalp, plucking out one last pepper hair. Then she turned to Tanya and said softly, "I'll walk in first, darling. Better hide your involvement."

Once her feet were firm on the floor, Elizabeth motioned with her hand to the two men at her side. They followed her hungrily, like canines searching for a morsel of meat, canes hovering at their sides. Though they were dressed in impeccable white suits, they possessed the grace of her clumsy daughter-in-law, stumbling down the walkway.

Helen, the maid, held the door of the house open, fidgeting uncomfortably. Her palms sweated over the gold coin in between her dirty fingers. "Mrs. Masen," she said, nodding her head and then letting Elizabeth and the men through. Elizabeth acknowledged her with a nod, then ordered the men to remain at the foot of the staircase.

Her lips curled back slightly as she climbed up the staircase, ready to get rid of the nuisance that was Isabella Swan.

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**Dr. Taylor Crowley **

_Present Day _

_New Hampshire Institute for Mental Patients _

Angela Weber had spent the better part of her ten years at the New Hampshire Institute for Mental Patients delivering Isabella Swan's letters to the post office. She was amazed by the coherency that Miss Swan spoke with. But Angela was blissfully unaware that all of Bella Swan's hope-filled letters always ended up in my office.

Being a physiatrist was dirty work, and Angela should know it. The institute often "nursed" more patients that were perfectly sane than insane. Bella Swan, however, had made herself seem insane with her behavior the first five months after her arrival. She screamed, kicked and wailed, and banged at the metal doors of her room, proclaiming passionately that she didn't belong here. Most patients—sane or insane, criminals or innocents—went through this for at least the six months.

In truth, Bella had truly amazed the entire hospital staff with the way she talked about her family. I'd been scared to death of what their amazement would do to my deal with Elizabeth Masen, as she gave generous, mouthwatering amounts of money so that I could keep her dratted daughter-in-law locked in an asylum.

Most of Bella's letters passed my inspection. I wondered why, when she knew that the letters would not reach her father if she spoke of her true whereabouts, she continued to write them. Isabella created a fictional character that went about teaching young children. It was all quite fanciful, even if she was becoming educated right under my nose.

Just like Angela delivered letters at my office and then at the post office, the devoted nurse picked up books at the library. Bella became an avid reader and, shocking my colleagues further, she developed a taste for literature.

In fact, Dr. Benjamin Cheney's file of her contained amazed notes at her capacity to keep track of time, to read and write, and to talk coherently. These things were especially astounding to him, as he had another patient who was convinced that he was Louis XVI and the year was 1714.

Cheney was a threat. The money Mrs. Masen sent was a sum I needed as badly as I needed air. These generous sums had expanded my office, home, and wealth in general exponentially.

A light knock on the door disrupted my musings.

"Dr. Crowley?" Angela's head popped through the door. In her hand she held a much dreaded pile of letters.

"Anything new?" I sighed, running a hand through my hair. Angela bit her lip and looked down at her shoes.

"Well, really, it's the average letter to Mr. Swan," she said quietly, shuffling the letters in her hands as she walked forward. "And a letter to her daughter."

I choked on my chamomile tea. God forbid that letter made it anywhere…I swallowed back my fear in a gulp.

"Leave them on my desk, Miss Webber," I said dismissively, but the letter seemed to emit a faint glow from where it was cradled between her hands. "And then you may leave. Your shift is over."

She did as I instructed, gave a curt nod, and then turned on her heel towards the door. The slight click signaled that I could open the letter. Jumping up, I tore the envelope open.

_September 10th, 1918_

_My Nessie,_

_I write this letter hoping to wish you a happy birthday, darling. Sixteen is a truly wonderful age. I wish that I could've seen you grow so far, love, but every time I look at a sixteen year old…_

I snorted. She was making her daughter believe that she wasn't locked in a mental asylum. Obviously, even if she pretended she wasn't locked in a mental ward, this letter wouldn't even make it to her daughter. Elizabeth Masen's granddaughter believed her mother to be dead.

Before Isabella Swan could get anymore fanciful, or weave a story that could very well threaten my career, the piece of paper had made it to the licking flames in my fireplace. That whore knew what would become of her if she dared to write a single letter to her daughter…and she had done it anyway. Well, she was about to understand the meaning of the word 'punishment'.

The torn pieces of paper burned into ashes, and with each new hiss of flame, my rage peaked further. She had been treated well, so far. Patients were usually submitted to brutal methods of torture that left them truly crippled. It was about time Isabella Swan stopped thinking she was the exception.

I unlocked the closet of my office. Strong acids and a metal cane were my goal. My lips curled. Isabella had tried to flee the institute several times; now there would be no leg to flee with. She pretended to write letters and see things she wasn't truly seeing, and now there would be no eye to see them with.


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

**Alice **

The sunlight streamed bright through the blinds in a yellow haze, toying with my temper. The street outside, one of the best streets in the city, was unusually quiet, save for a boy's good-natured, happy humming. And, unfortunately, only Renesmee would find an excuse in the boy's humming and the unpleasant June sunlight to move.

Her unusually well-done hair hung wildly around her face, her thumb was stuck to her rosy lips, and she was shooting daggers in my direction. She crumpled the fifth piece of paper and tossed it to the floor. I looked pointedly towards all of the disposed paper, but Renesmee just ignored me and grabbed another sheet. All of her stationary was personalized, and she acted as if it was worthless. Typical of Renesmee. She knew how to get her way, rather like her grandmother.

"Nessie, do it again," I said exasperatedly. "Four-hundred and sixty four, divided by four. Don't give me that look, please."

She scribbled the numbers down in even messier handwriting, with the sole purpose of irritating me. Renesmee's handwriting had always been beautiful, but the lazier she got, the less work she put into things. She was used to having a flock of maids to take care of the chores that she didn't want to have to do. Everything had always been served to her on a silver platter. Anyone who contradicted her or got in her way would be punished by her father.

"Alice, I can't work in the sunlight," she grumbled. She turned to look at me, raising an eyebrow—threatening me to challenge her verdict.

We'd moved from the perfectly lovely desk in her room to the table in the garden to the dining table and to her _father's study_ and she wanted to move yet again. Only Renesmee Masen would actually dare change to irritate me in such a way, and only Renesmee would get away with going into her father's study. Only Renesmee called me Alice, not because I asked her to, but because nobody ever told her otherwise. It wouldn't bother me so much if it hadn't been a product of the fact that Renesmee was spoiled rotten.

Edward and Renesmee's relationship was unhealthy. Ever since Bella left—I was one of the few people in the know—his obsession with his daughter had become unnatural. And while Renesmee had inherited a few of Bella's qualities – like her passion for reading, a stubborn streak, and intelligence beyond that of other girls her age – she was _not_ her mother. Because Renesmee was one of the only people in his life that Edward was close to, he was unable to bear the thought of having to live without her. She'd become Bella in his eyes, and Edward was insane about his daughter.

In his eyes, Renesmee could do no wrong. Renesmee was kind, caring and selfless. And while she was not a bad girl—she was actually a lovely, kindhearted girl—Renesmee often took advantage of her father's adoration.

She thrived on the fact that Edward let her boss the house staff around. She adored the fact that her possessions were prettier than those of her friends'_ mothers_. She loved that Edward wanted to spoil her senseless. At times, even if she was unaware of it, she manipulated her father. He submitted to her every whim the moment she pouted and batted her pretty eyelashes.

But I loved her. She'd been my little doll for a very long time, and she was a true sweetheart when she wanted to be. Actually, being a sweetheart was second nature to her. What made her nasty was that when she didn't want to be a doll, she was the devil's advocate.

That's why I was so frightened to tell her of my engagement to Jasper. She was already moody because Edward was leaving for London with his mother this summer. His mother, naturally, was pulling strings to get Renesmee into a well-respected boarding school in England. For some reason—skeletons in the closet, perhaps?—Elizabeth shuddered at the thought of Renesmee staying in a boarding school in the United States, as if frightened of the things Renesmee would learn.

Renesmee loathed the idea of not having the delight of a tutor— probably because she knew that as a tutor, I was required to submit to the whims of spoiled girls. Jasper, however, thought it was because I was soft. I had fun with Nessie, after all. I would miss her terribly when I gave up being a tutor, but Jasper was well-positioned financially and I wouldn't have to work.

And since the wedding was scheduled for June, I had to tell her now. A good way to turn her mood around would be to stop with the subject. I wasn't fond of math, either. Like her mother, Nessie was a lot better with reading and writing.

I could remember Bella—back when she was seventeen—cuddling a baby Renesmee to her chest with one hand while she held a book in the other. Renesmee used to grab at the pages with her little fists.

"Nessie, sweetie, why don't we stop, now," I said a little uncertainly. She sighed with relief and wrapped her arms around me, tossing her last paper into the ground with glee.

I squeezed her shoulders at first, but ended up pulling her into a fierce hug. After I released her, she raised her eyebrow and smiled. "Really? I thought I was the only one who hated math."

I growled in frustration and then looked at her in the eye. I was trying to be serious, even if I wasn't normally very good at it. "Honey, I'm engaged." I sounded like Emmett when he yelled, "Honey, I'm home!" to Rosalie. Not a very flattering picture.

Her mouth fell open into an endearing little O. She squealed with glee. "Oh, Alice!"

She knew I was engaged to Jasper. She was a bit too perceptive, like her mother. I knew Bella because my brother, Emmett Cullen, had always been good friends with Edward. I was one of the few people that knew Bella was a scullery maid, as I had taken my lessons with her. Despite the age gap—she'd been seventeen and pregnant and I had been twelve and flat-chested—she became my best friend.

I never thought she would hurt Edward the way she had.

"When's the big day?"

"June."

Her mouth fell open again. "So soon," she said thoughtfully.

"I know, Nessie," I replied apologetically, squeezing her hand.

It was her turn to envelop me in a hug. "I'm so happy for you and Mr. Whitlock."

After a few seconds, I pushed her gently away. "Honey, I've already told your father about this. He's been asking whether I had a decent governess chosen for the summer, and I'm trying to come up with someone."

There were tears in Renesmee's eyes. "Whoever you pick won't be as good as you," she said mournfully.

"You don't know that," I said gently, tucking a curl behind her ear. "She might be."

**Angela **

_New Hampshire Institute for Mental Patients _

As soon as I walked into the institute, I knew something was wrong. After all, today I had gifts for Bella: a reply from her father, and the Jane Austen novel, _Emma_, that she so badly wanted to read. Usually, I checked her ward, showed her the letter and the book, and then took them to inspection. But when I opened her ward, she wasn't there. Anxiously—for Bella had become a great friend of mine—I walked towards Dr. Crowley's office.

He was sitting in his desk, looking unusually grave. I didn't trust Dr. Crowley. Truthfully, Bella did not seem insane. She seemed as sane as the patients in regular hospitals.

His fingers were folded together, and his lips were pursed. "Angela," he said, gesturing towards one of the seats in his office. Ever since Bella had arrived, his office had expanded significantly.

He cleared his throat. I braced myself for the worst.

"Miss Swan tried to escape the institute last night," he said solemnly, sighing as if this caused him great pain. "She fell down and broke several bones in her legs and hips. It is beyond our means to cure her, most unfortunately, particularly as she sustained another injury.

"She took some medication and squirted it in her eye, the poor dear," he continued dramatically. "We think she may have gone blind in that eye."

That was when I saw his cupboard open, a metal cane peeking out from the door. I dumped the basket on his desk and stormed out of the room as violently as my position allowed for.

I went down to the infirmary ward. Dr. Crowley could say whatever he wanted to the doctors. That maybe her daughter's birthday had made her suicidal, or triggered her insanity. But I truly did not believe Bella was mad. When I found her, she had a bandage on one eye, and one of her legs was covered in plaster. Bella was in for months of agony. The plaster weighed down on her leg, and she screamed out at the pain in her eye.

Once she could walk again—though she might need a cane and she would be blind in one eye—I would help her end this crippling agony.

**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews so far. A few clues about what's happening: Elizabeth hates Bella, and would do anything to get rid of her, (sending her away included). **


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